One day, it’s spring. The next day, it’s winter. Such is life in northeastern Pennsylvania.
Monday’s bitter retrospective of a season we thought was over didn’t prove much of a deterrent for a somber line of young people who came to say goodbye to Mason. Clad in black, clutching cigarettes and cell phones and occasionally sobbing, they exchanged acts of consolation that made them seem suddenly grown up.
“How are you holding up?” a young man rhetorically asked a young woman on the verge of hysteria.
“Pretty well,” she responded, obviously swallowing her pain.
Although a constant wind blew and the line inched forward, no one complained. No one left. And, no one seemed in a hurry to bid farewell to their fallen friend.
It was early Saturday morning when Mason lost control of his vehicle in Nanticoke. He was found dead several hours later. It’s a situation beyond imagination for parents everywhere.
By Monday night, the sadness was palatable as friends realized they would see their classmate and friend for the last time at the funeral home several miles from their former high school. They also prepared for the moment when they would give comfort to Mason’s family, and they did so with careful contemplation. These lessons of “saying the right thing” at the moment should be reserved for much older people. I admired their maturity and sensitivity. I also felt sorrow that they had to endure a situation which should be reserved for much later in their young lives. I’ve been to wakes for older people. There are sometimes very few other mourners. This situation shouldn’t be considered sad, but the sign of a long life. The wake of a young person, jammed with contemporaries, simply isn’t right.
Mason was a first-year student at King’s College, majoring in biology and chemistry. An extremely bright student, his academics were a point of vast pride for his mom, Paula. His gift for comprehension of these notoriously difficult subjects came so easy for Mason, who planned on a career in medicine.
As the young mourners reached their destination, there was sobbing and hugging. There was some struggling to make sure Mason’s mom and family understood their considerable sadness.
“Don’t forget him,” Paula advised, hugging the kids who must have reminded her so much of her lost son. I am always amazed when those who have suffered a deep loss end up the consolers in these situations.
I had been to Paula’s house in Ashley several times, many moons ago. Her step-daughter, Julia, was an elementary school classmate of my daughter’s. They often got together for sleepovers. Julia’s dad, Dan, is a kind man who never minded a few extra kids messing up the house he shared with Paula. I remembered Mason as a young teen who reminded me of my own son, who is just a few months younger.
I told Paula and Dan I would pray for them, and hope you might, too. It’s the best way we can continue the discussion about their loss in a proactive way.
When I saw the young lady Julia had become, I was taken aback. I told her I wouldn’t have recognized her if I saw her in the street and she said the same about me, too.
We hugged. Then, she said the six words I hope I’ll never forget and you won’t, either.
“Tell your boys to be safe.”
This simple statement has the power to save young lives. Have someone deliver this message to the young men in your life. If they don’t listen to you, have a teacher, classmate or grandparent offer the advice. I believe our kids often tune out our voices and only hear bits and pieces of the wisdom we convey.
On my way home from the funeral home, I cried all the way up Blackman Street, past St. Boniface where the girls were classmates back in the day. It’s days like Monday that make me miss a time when the kids were smaller and the problems seemed solvable.
“Tell your boys to stay safe.” This memorable message, inspired by an unimaginable tragedy, is one I would ask you to share with your boys (or girls), whether they’re six or 60. So often in life, we talk about our sadness when things go wrong. How about conveying this message to keep things going right?
Corbett
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